Poverty Castle (32 page)

‘Do you see much of Peggy?' asked Effie.

‘I haven't seen her at all. We don't attend the same lectures.'

‘Haven't you been to visit her?'

‘She was coming to see me this afternoon.'

‘I wonder if she did spend the summer working in the supermarket.'

‘I expect so.'

That was all that was said about Peggy.

P
EGGY WAITED
until the evening before telephoning. This wasn't so that she could use the cheap rate but because she shrank from intruding and had kept hoping that Diana would call and tell her what had happened.

It was Effie who replied. Her voice was hard and cold and did not change when she knew it was Peggy she was speaking to. ‘My mother's dead.'

Peggy felt tears in her eyes. She could not stem them. They ran down her cheeks. She could not remember ever having shed tears before.

Mrs Sempill had loved bright colours and jewellery, she had been so proud of her daughters, and she had asked Peggy to regard herself as one of them.

Peggy could not bring herself to ask how the baby was.

‘We didn't see her alive. We were too late.'

‘I'm sorry, Effie.'

‘It's a boy. So she got her wish. So she was happy at the end. That's what they're saying. They're saying too that it's not the baby's fault. I know it isn't but I've got to blame something.'

Peggy wanted to say, ‘Can I come and share your grief, Effie?' but she just said that she was sorry.

‘Papa's devastated. We all are. Who said the Sempills were lucky? Thanks for telephoning, Peggy.'

That was it. Peggy was left staring at the notice which requested users of the telephone to show consideration for others, but in her imagination she saw the tall white house by the sea, whose name yesterday was a misnomer but today was not.

She was trembling as she went upstairs. She could not have been more distressed if it had been her own mother who had died. This was Thursday, the funeral would probably be on Monday. They had taken her to see the cemetery at Kilcalmonell, where some of the gravestones had skulls and crossbones and eighteenth-century dates. Unlike most cemeteries it was untidy, with bushes, trees, and wild flowers. Birds sang in it. Now in October there would be many fallen leaves. She wanted to be there on Monday. She felt she had a right.

Fiona, munching an apple, did not at first notice her damp eyes. When she did she stopped in the middle of a bite. She had told her parents that her room-mate was a wee Glasgow hard case. ‘Bad news?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Your family?'

‘Yes, my family,' said Peggy inwardly. Aloud she said, ‘Diana Sempill's mother is dead.'

Fiona's eyes grew large. This was big news. ‘She's the girl that was here before me? The one that lives in a castle?'

‘Yes.'

‘Was she ill?'

‘Yes.'

‘What was wrong with her?'

The baby was a family secret. ‘Her heart.'

‘That's terrible. She couldn't have been very old.'

‘She wasn't fifty.'

‘That's not old today, is it?'

Fiona then went off to spread the news.

If they wanted me to come, thought Peggy, Effie would have said so. Funerals are family affairs. Their Edinburgh relatives will be there.

All the same she could not bear to go home that weekend where no message could reach her.

On Saturday afternoon she went for a walk in the Botanic Gardens and sat among the withering chrysanthemums, trying to read
Civilisation on Trial
.

She had a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit in a Wimpey's and then hurried back to the boarding-house. There had been no message from Kilcalmonell.

Several times she was on the point of telephoning them herself. Perhaps they wanted her to come but in the turmoil of grief had forgotten to ask her, or perhaps they thought she would come without having to be asked. When they remembered, too late, they would be upset.

When she went to bed she left her door open so that she might hear the telephone ringing below in the hall. At weekends the house was almost deserted. Once it did ring, at half past twelve, and she was on her way downstairs when a very annoyed Mrs Brownlee shouted up: ‘It's for Sadie Meiklejohn. You might have guessed.'

On Sunday afternoon Peggy walked to the Art Galleries and sat with her book, in the company of aristocratic ladies who had lived hundreds of years ago but somehow were still alive. One resembled Mrs Sempill, in having fair hair, eager hands, and especially a look of adoration as she gazed at her husband, a haughty grandee more interested in his wolfhounds than in her. He was very different from Mr Sempill, who would have looked back adoringly.

When she got back to the boarding-house about six there was still no message. She gave up hope then.

The girls began to arrive back, boisterous and cheerful with tales of their adventures. Fiona was enthusiastic about a shinty match she had seen. One of the star players was a boyfriend of hers. Afterwards they had gone to a disco. On their way home the moon had been shining on Oban bay.

Fiona was asleep and Peggy trying to sleep when a girl came and said Peggy was wanted on the telephone. It was ten minutes to twelve.

‘Who is it?' asked Peggy.

‘No idea. Somebody yelled up it was for you. Hope it's not bad news.'

It could be Peggy's mother anxious to know that she was all
right. Peggy felt ashamed. All that weekend she had scarcely given her mother a thought.

It was Effie Sempill. Her voice was not so cold and hard. She was more reconciled. ‘It's just occurred to us, Peggy, that we haven't asked you if you would like to come to Mama's funeral.'

‘I would like very much to come.'

‘She would have wanted you to be there. She said you had the gift of silence.'

A typical Mrs Sempill way of describing dour reticence!

‘Unlike herself, she said.' Effie was weeping, quietly. ‘She was always talking, like a bird is always singing.'

Just as her hands were as busy as wings.

‘Sorry we've left it so late, Peggy. The funeral's at three tomorrow. There's to be no church service and no minister. Mama's relatives wanted her to be buried in Edinburgh but she wanted to remain here in Kilcalmonell, to be close to us, for she knew that, wherever we were in the world, we would always come back to Poverty Castle. Do you know how to get here?'

‘Yes.' After all, she had been there before.

‘A bus leaves Glasgow for Tarbeg early in the morning and arrives about twelve. Someone will meet you there. By the way Nigel's here. He flew up with Edwin. So maybe he's not so awful after all.'

Peggy wondered if she should ask how the baby was. She would see for herself tomorrow.

‘You'll be staying the night of course.'

‘I don't want to be in the way.'

‘You'll never be that. You're very good at effacing yourself. Too good, some of us think. See you tomorrow then.'

It was only then, as she put down the telephone, with tears of relief and joy and sorrow running down her cheeks, that Peggy realised she didn't have any clothes suitable for a funeral. Did it matter? The Sempills themselves, some of them anyway, might not be wearing mourning clothes. Any dark coat would
do, dark stockings, and a dark headscarf, but she had none of these.

Who were the girls with the most varied wardrobes? Sadie Meiklejohn and Paula Johnston, who were room-mates. They were obliging and generous but both of them were inches taller than she.

She knocked on their door, hoping they weren't asleep.

‘Come in,' called Sadie.

They weren't in bed. Sadie was wearing only purple briefs: her breasts were big and brazen; like rugby footballs, one of the girls had said. Paula's red nightie was short and transparent. Their faces were plastered with cold cream.

There was a reek of cigarette smoke and scent. It was rumoured that they smoked pot.

They stared in astonishment at the Wee Swot, as they called her.

‘Sorry to bother you,' she said. ‘But maybe you've heard that Diana Sempill's mother is dead.'

‘Yes, we heard. Too bad.' They hadn't cared much for Diana but their sympathy was genuine while it lasted.

‘I've been asked to go to the funeral.'

‘Are you going?' asked Sadie. ‘I always refuse. Funerals are ghastly.'

‘Yes, I'm going, but I haven't any suitable clothes.'

They had to smile. Her wardrobe was pitiful. They were University students themselves but even so couldn't understand how any girl would rather spend her money on books.

‘Do you have a coat I could borrow, please?'

They smiled again, at this absurd and cheeky request. Why should she think they had clothes suitable for a funeral? And surely she knew they were both at least two sizes bigger than she?

‘You're welcome to anything I have that you think might suit you,' said Sadie.

‘Me too,' said Paula.

‘I know they'll be too big for me but it won't matter at a funeral, will it?'

Was this, they wondered, exchanging glances, a sample of the Wee Swot's irony, which they had heard about?

‘Any dark-coloured coat would do.'

Sadie brought out a dark-blue coat with red cuffs and collar. Paula's was olive-green with yellow buttons. Peggy asked if she could try them on.

Both coats were too long and wide.

Rummaging among a bundle of belts Sadie found a blue one. Tightly drawn, it made the dark-blue coat look less long and wide.

‘This would do,' said Peggy. ‘Do you mind if I borrow it, Sadie?'

‘Not a bit,' said Sadie, amazed that a girl of twenty-one would go to a function, even a funeral, dressed like that. The Sempills and their relatives would be most properly dressed. ‘You're welcome to it, Peggy, but surely there's a coat in the house nearer your size?'

‘It's too late to go round asking. I'm leaving first thing tomorrow morning.'

Paula had looked out a mauve headscarf and beige stockings.

‘What about shoes?' asked Sadie.

‘I've got a black pair that will do.'

They let in but perhaps tomorrow would be dry.

‘What did Mrs Sempill die of?' asked Sadie.

They didn't know about the baby. Peggy felt mean about keeping them in the dark and yet borrowing their clothes.

‘Her heart,' she said.

‘For all their money,' muttered Sadie.

For all their beauty. For all their pleasure in life. For all their love for one another. For all their luck.

‘Thanks very much,' said Peggy, at the door. ‘I'll take good care of them.'

‘Good luck anyway,' said Sadie, and added, more to herself
than to Peggy, ‘and I don't just mean at the funeral.' She couldn't help giving her blessing for what it was worth to a girl who had nothing and didn't seem to mind.

 

H
E HAD
once written that of all the mean tricks death played on people the worst was to take them by surprise, giving them no time to prepare with courage and dignity. In one of his stories an elderly man was struck down in the lavatory, in the act of wiping himself. Therefore Jessie, though shocked and grieved, was pleased too, for his sake, when, after calling three times that lunch was ready, she went to his study and found him, not busy at his desk, but seated in the armchair, with his hands clasped on his lap and the remnants of a smile on his face. She would have thought he had fallen asleep if his eyes hadn't been open. Harvey the cat, who usually lay on the desk, undisturbed by the typewriter, had vanished. He didn't like trouble and kept out of the way till it was over.

There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter. She glanced at it. He had managed to finish the sentence before the warning came, perhaps a stab of pain or dizziness. He had struggled into the armchair to prepare himself, for the grimmest of all interviewers. She hoped that he had been able to finish his novel, though she did not think he had. Perhaps death had tricked him meanly after all.

For a day in October the weather was fine. There was blue sky. In the mountains of Arran the warrior slept.

She thought of the table set for two.

She was composed now. Later it would not be so easy. She had telephone calls to make, one to the doctor, and one to Morag in Milwaukee.

The doctor at first was displeased at being disturbed at his lunch after a hard morning's work, but when she told him what
had happened he was sympathetic and regretful. He had been proud of having as a patient one of the country's leading novelists. He would come immediately. Was she all right? Was she alone? Yes, she was all right and she would rather be alone in the meantime.

By bedtime the doctor and undertaker had been and gone, Donald had been carried upstairs and put on a bed, with help from the farmer and his son, Harvey had come back but not to the study, she had read the book from the beginning and found that the last chapter had not been written, and she had been in touch with Morag.

It had not been an emotional conversation. Neither of them was that kind of woman.

‘I'm sorry to tell you, Morag, your father's dead.'

‘Good heavens! When did it happen?'

‘About two hours ago. This is the third time I've tried to reach you. The funeral's to be on Friday, in Kilmory, or Kilcalmonell as he calls it in his book. That's where he was born and where his father and mother are buried. That's what he wanted. Will you be able to come?'

‘It'll not be convenient but I'll certainly come. How did it happen? Was he found in a wood?'

‘No. I found him, in the armchair in his study. He didn't manage to finish his book after all.'

‘At least he didn't suffer.'

‘We don't know that. It would trouble him, during that last minute, knowing that it wasn't finished.'